Know Your Enemy
by MezzoPenDoll05
Summary: Cato has been taught that to win, you must know your enemy. He knows that there are only two ways to know your enemy. If he's going to fight Peeta Mellark and kill him, he's going to have to understand him in the other way first.
1. Chapter 1

_Know Your Enemy_

Rule number one. The trainers drilled it into their heads. Every variation of it, every meaning of it. Identify the enemy, know the enemy, you are your enemy, your allies are your enemy. So, he, and the other potential tributes knew these things. Knew themselves, knew each other. Watched the reapings, watched the old videos of Hunger Games past to know the mentors. Knew the Capitol, knew the districts as well as they could.

Tributes came in a few flavors, they had been taught. Shaking Children, underfed twelve-year-olds. Other Careers. Fighters, kids who had a chance but no real training. A few wildcards, tricksters, geniuses, or simply Rabbits, lucky ones like Annie Cresta. But this was another part of knowing the Capitol. Careers winning because they were the best, the strongest, the smartest got boring. So Rabbits won some years. Fighters won some years. But Careers won, mostly.

And you knew careers. You had to know careers. You knew yourself, you knew your potential district partners. You knew your competition, too, for the right to volunteer. Cato knew every boy and every girl in his year. Equally his enemy, equally his ally. That Clove had won the right to volunteer for the female spot was a gift. She he knew top to bottom. Knew better than the others. Knew her obsessive, perfect precision. Her incredible agility. Her drive. Her few, fragile little weaknesses. That she was proud, but that was a both were, they all were. Clove's weaknesses were more secretive. After all, she had beaten out Lithania, twice her size, Lucretz, twice as quick, Emmia, who maybe really could have killed them all with her brain. Clove beat them because she really was a tribute, through and through. She knew herself.

Cato knew what Clove knew. That her up-close vision was not perfect, she held things, papers, books far from her face. Always with a look of disdain, as though she were greater than the words. But Cato saw the squinting. That she, against all odds, was incredibly tactile. She loved to touch things. It distracted her. These were the tiny cracks in Clove; nothing wrong with her tactics, with her fighting, with her composure. She was as perfect as any girl could be. Cato was sure that the reason he had watched Clove all these years was because she was certain to be his district partner. But he thought now how reckless this had been, that he had focused on her. There wasn't another rational reason.

Clove made sense. Glimmer made sense. Marvel made sense. But this stranger, this _Peeta Mellark_. Cato wasn't sure the others believed it. But he did. Mellark was not with them to stay safe or to help them track the stupid Girl on Fire (just another Fighter). Cato had not seen love many times, but he knew it well enough. Mellark was not going along with them to kill her. This much was clear. But why then? He wasn't a Rabbit. He wasn't a Fighter. He wasn't a Shaking Child. So what was he? Cato couldn't help but give him his own name. He had to categorize him. But how? A Martyr? Was it that simple, he just wanted her to live? It seemed more complicated than that. A Lover? But Cato did know love, and love was not enough to do what he was now doing. Didn't he love his mother? His father? His brother and sisters? Little Clover, as he had so often called her when they were younger? But he knew he would never die for any of them; they would never forgive him and their love would be lost.

So what the hell. This weirdo now coaxing a firey blaze out of shitty kindling. Stocky, but strong. Well fed and well muscled, but not in the way the other Careers were, with focus on core strength and muscles built up very specifically. All of his bulk seemed to be focused in the arms and shoulders making him look strangely lopsided, topheavy, to Cato. The softness in his eyes was as strange as the sureness in his speech. Cato did not know his enemy.

_If you know yourself and your enemy, you can win a hundred battles without jeopardy._

That was the first hurdle then. To get it. The other tributes he could take, because he knew them. That was the mantra. They were predictable, even Clove he would out wrangle. But the not knowing. Not understanding. It made him edgy. A memory floated back to him. One of his mentors, Caesor. He had asked him, after a long, winding lesson on the meaning of knowledge.

_"But how?" His teenage voice breaking against his will, he remembered trying to force it to deepen, "how can you really ever know someone?"_

_Caesor's laugh filled the room. The Victor of the 56th Hunger Games did not smile much, as half of his face bore a long, awful scar that kept his features still. "Ah," he exhaled, trying to get a hold of himself, "You're brighter than they give you credit for, Cato."_

_Cato frowned at him, found his display of amusement weak, a delay to his sincere question, "how do you do it?"_

_His mentor stood quietly, and looked him up and down. Though Cato was used to people evaluating him, Caesor's gaze now was uncomfortable. Cato shifted in his chair, more than ready to go home, but not before this answer. "How do you learn someone?" he persisted. _

_"Ah, boy," He said almost ruefully, "it's so simple." He walked to the fire and stared into it. His early-grayed hair seeming to light red. Cato recalled clenching his fists, feeling impatient. "Learn two lessons, now, boy. The first is this, patience."_

_Cato let a growl out of his 14-year-old throat, "I know about patience."_

_"Do you now?" Caesor was suddenly very serious, and rounded on him, but Cato sensed the attack and fought it off easily. "Oh you'll learn that soon enough. But this I think you'll catch onto quickly, boy." Cato looked up expectantly, and his mentor sat across from him, holding his gaze steadily._

_"Cato, listen here, right now. Two ways, the ways of Two," he mused quietly, "To know someone, to really know someone you have two choices. You fight them or you fuck them."_

You fight them or you fuck them. Cato had never tried the latter, though he knew what Clove had been up to the night before the arena. And he let her, because she was weirdly beautiful, because he wanted her, despite himself, and because he couldn't die a virgin. And those things he had learned about Clove when they did it- that she would die with a knife in her hand even if she was the Victor, that her taut stomach was so sensitive and that she would kill him in their fight, if he gave her half a chance. She would kill him without a second thought about it. Because she was, as he had suspected, through and through, a Tribute, a Career. She didn't care about dying in the games. She had no occupation but this. This was truly her career in every sense of the word.

Cato had enjoyed it, but he was sure, afterward, that he would rather know people by fighting them. The things he had learned about Clove he might have discerned from fighting her, had they been allowed to fight full-out in mixed practice. He also knew that if he were to become Victor he would have to fight his wife before he would fuck her, would never marry her if she couldn't hold her own, like Clove could.

Of the many things that Clove had taught him, perhaps the difference between fighting and fucking would be the last lesson she bestowed. You couldn't practice it properly; not that the others hadn't tried. But it wasn't like fighting even if you did practice. No one could watch, give feedback. No one would be honest at the end of it about whether it was good. nothing was written about it that wasn't covered in flowery language and bullshit. No, fucking was not Cato's way.

In general. Oh, he would get to fight with Mellark, that much was absolutely clear. But this was not the training center. He couldn't fight him full out, not the way he would have to in order to know him. And to really fight him and win, to kill him, he had to know him. Had to. He didn't know how to do it any other way.

So fuck him. Again, so much more difficult than it sounded. There was generally a reason to fight. Sex... well, besides that it was fun... there didn't seem to be a great reason for it. Cato didn't do hardly anything because it was fun. And you had to get someone else to agree to it. Or rape them. But that wasn't the same thing. You didn't learn a damn thing that way, Cato surmised, except that you could pin them down. And even he, ready absolutely to kill the remaining children in the arena, did not feel that was right. It seemed vulgar.

He watched Mellark staring into the fire. It wouldn't be too hard to enjoy him. He wasn't like Clove, soft and incredibly strong. Who he loved, if only in the limited way that he could allow himself to love her, having known, from the moment he met her that she could, and now must, die for him to be the Victor. Occasionally, a fleeting thought would cross his mind, what would have happened with them had either of them been a year younger or older. Could they be together if they won consecutive years? But he pushed this thought from his brain. It was stupid. He tried to look at others, but Cato didn't take much notice of girls or boys. Power was far more interesting. Right now, Mellark had that power. He was a mystery.

Cato stood abruptly, "we need more firewood," he announced to his comrades. They stared back at him with questions on their faces. Clove's expression was sharpest. She knew as well as he did they were set for the night, "come on Loverboy, we're going to find more," Something lit behind Clove's eyes. No, she wouldn't question him, not if he shared his information with her. Which he would, he supposed. The others, the girl from four and the luxury tributes did not voice their concerns if they had them. For his part, Peeta only stood and stretched, ready to follow him into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Cato stood abruptly, "we need more firewood," he announced to his comrades. They stared back at him with questions on their faces. Clove's expression was sharpest. She knew as well as he did they were set for the night, "come on Loverboy, we're going to find more," Something lit behind Clove's eyes. No, she wouldn't question him, not if he shared his information with her. Which he would, he supposed. The others, the girl from four and the luxury tributes did not voice their concerns if they had them. For his part, Peeta only stood and stretched, ready to follow him into the night.

The two of them marched until they were far from the firelight, their eyes adjusted slowly and Cato slowed as they came into a small clearing. Cato turned to face the other boy, sizing him up. He had a plan, but he didn't know exactly how to execute it.

"Are you going to kill me now, then? You won't find her without me, you know." Peeta remarked quietly, his hands hanging helplessly at his sides. There was no fear in his eyes.

"No, Peeta Mellark," he replied, narrowing his eyes, "not just yet. But don't think for a second I don't know exactly what you're doing. They might believe you want to help us, but I don't."

If this was news to Peeta it did not show on his face. He remained open, impassive. They stared at one another.

"You love her." Cato said.

"I do," he replied very simply.

"And you're with us because as a group, we're the only ones that you think could take her down, and you're not going to miss the chance to try to protect her." The nonsense of this colored his tone.

Now small marks of surprise did reflect on the other boy's face. "Is that why you brought me out here?" he took a deep breath and asked again, "Are you going to kill me?"

This was strange to him, the way the boy kept asking if he would kill him. As if he couldn't fight back, as if he had no choice. A death sentence.

"No," Cato said simply, "I didn't bring you out here to fight you." But the answer didn't clear the question in the air. His blue eyes were steady and unsettling. "I'm not going to kill you, but the others will if I tell them what you're really doing. You're going to do some things for me."

Now Peeta's eyebrows were fully raised, and he opened his mouth to ask, but Cato answered before he got a chance, "take off your clothes."

"Take off my clothes?" He repeated dumbly.

"Take off your clothes," Cato instructed with a step forward and the subtlest shift in his muscles. Not quite a threat. Not quite an invitation.

"Why?" Even as he asked this, his hands were at the zipper of the jacket. This was even more confusing. Cato had been ready to convince him, lie to him, seduce him. Would he really do this just to get the chance to stay with their pack? The necessity of his impending actions struck him again. This boy made absolutely no sense. None. So he didn't have to lie.

He only leered, "I want to get to know you better."

Let him think he was some kind of pervert. It didn't matter. Peeta's eyes closed tightly for a moment, but he unzipped his jacket, then removed his shirt and his pants. He stood there in his underclothing, acceptance written plainly on his face. "I don't know how to do this," Peeta said quietly, "not even with a girl."

"Well, it can't be that much different, can it?" Cato heard himself say coldly, taking off his own jacket and clothes, and approaching him. He could see the other boy was breathing harder, fighting to keep his face impassive, but shaking. Scared? Angry? Just cold? Cato couldn't tell. The answer was right there if he could just figure out how to start this. But he remembered his time with Clove, how it all started with that harsh kiss.

But it wasn't harsh, because he wasn't in control of it. Peeta had stepped to him in one fluid motion and pressed his lips to his with such incredible, strange gentleness that he had to remind himself what was going on, who was in charge. He grabbed the other boy by the hair and deepened the kiss, crushing him against his chest, biting his lip. It was different, not unpleasant, but the loverboy was hard and soft and kissed him back willingly.

He yanked the other boy's undershirt off, ran his hands over his chest, around to his back, felt down to his ass. Peeta let out a soft moan as he was groped thoroughly, and Cato was surprised and not when it awakened a need in him. Sex was sex, he supposed, whether his partner was a girl or a boy. He felt around to the front of his pants and found the other boy hardening, wrapped his hand around it and gave it a firm pump through the fabric. He watched his face for his reaction. Peeta was flushed, still breathing hard, if Cato had been surprised by the kiss, he was more surprised by his next words.

"Is this what people do in District Two?"

Cato decided it was best to ignore him, silenced him with another punishing kiss and several hard pumps of his cock before shoving him roughly to the ground. He felt something akin to the delicious power he often got when he gained the upper hand in battle, seeing the blond boy sprawled on the ground, hard for him. He removed his pants and stroked himself, revelling in the feeling.

But the other boy spoke again, his blue eyes boring into him, "Don't they couple for love in your district?"

"No." Cato said coldly, though he wasn't actually sure of that answer. He prowled over to him, covered the smaller boy's body with his own. But he was surprised again when he felt someone else's hands on his cock. He was feeling it gently, rubbing it with his strong, calloused hands. Cato supposed he should be glad it was this easy, that his quarry was not only consenting but participating, but it only unsettled him. This boy had so much power.

"That's so sad," he said quietly, and Cato felt his other hand kneading his back. Even more than his ministrations with the other hand, the attention to his back felt _amazing. _ He bit down on the Peeta's strangely strong shoulder hard, but not hard enough to draw blood. He felt his hand tighten around him. He kissed him again, deeply, with a growl. Pressed hard against him, showing him what would come next.

Suddenly, in a whirl of muscle, he was underneath him, he felt kisses and licks peppering his chest around his undershirt. Then, in a surprisingly violent movement, Peeta grabbed hold of either side of his shirt and ripped it cleanly down the middle, and continued kissing, with no pause. Cato could hardly begin to ground another noise, when he felt a hot mouth close around him. Sucking, licking, dragging his teeth in a clumsy but gratifyingly painful rhythm. The only word that escaped his mouth was, "what?"

And the pressure stopped. The spit on his freed cock made him feel unnaturally cold. Peeta Peeta's voice came softly, and he could feel each word as it brushed against him, "Because someone should love you. Even if you don't understand it." Then the heat again, so hot, his tongue so rough. He could no longer calculate how long this had been going on, only the warmth and the incredible feeling of nearing, getting closer to completion. Thoughts swirled in his head and he felt completely helpless. Helpless? He came to in an instant, had the other boy underneath him in less than a second. Their eyes locked, but all he could see there was pity and a hint of something else.

Cato caught his mouth in a kiss harder than any of the ones before it. With one knee he forced the other boy's legs apart. He noted that now, the Loverboy was trembling. Having the upper hand back felt good. He pulled his mouth away and snarled, "are you a virgin, Loverboy?" Sadness clouded Peeta's eyes, and he nodded. "Not going to fight me?" He asked, forcing a nasty grin onto his face. It felt wrong, now. His resolve wavered for a moment, as Peeta's hand reached up and stroked his face, tangled in his hair. Tears were sliding down either side of the baker's face.

"No. I wanted my first time to be with her. But that will never happen, now." He closed his eyes for a moment, more tears leaked out. Cato could feel him breathe deeply underneath him. When he opened his eyes, they were steady. "So, no, I won't fight you, Cato, if this is what you need."

Cato wanted to just plunge into him, take him now and get it over with. Instead, he leaned in and kissed him. Like he had never kissed anyone; gently. The other boy's mouth went completely still, but he soon warmed to it, pressing against him, holding him tightly. And though they were young, and young boys at that, the need seemed to leak from the moment. Cato's mind wandered, and he thought of Clove as he kissed the enigmatic blond tribute. Thinking of Clove should have again, snapped him back to the moment, but he only felt an ache in the pit of his stomach. A noise he didn't understand escaped his own mouth. Peeta broke them apart and looked at him with a question in his eyes.

At what point was he going to start getting some answers? Everything this boy did made no sense. Why would he give himself up so easily, without a fight? Why did he seem to pity him? Even as these thoughts swirled in his head Peeta was already rubbing his hands across his back, kneading his muscles again. Holding him close, rubbing him gently. The flowery language made some sense, in this moment. It was _a lover's embrace_. Then, he began to speak, so softly, with his eyes downcast. "I can't imagine growing up career. How they had to have treated you as a child for you to be like this now. To laugh while you kill children. What it must feel like for this to be the crowning moment of your life. What do you do after this, even if you do win? It seems so bizarre. Do they train the love out of you? The compassion? Those children, they're coming with you, with us, for the rest of our lives... no matter how short that may be. Or maybe they won't come with you, I suppose, if they've trained you like I imagine they did. But I don't know which is sadder, having to be haunted by the memory of maimed children or not feeling anything. And almost worse than that... we come in here with partners and leave without them. The life of a Victor... I can't imagine anything worse. Life without your partner."

Cato wanted to scream at him to stop, but he was so disgustingly, terribly right that there was no way for him to protest, to tell him he was lying. He had no idea the riches and comfort that would come from being a Victor. But that last part... there was no way, no way they both could live. He had never really allowed himself to consider what life would be like without her sarcastic jokes, her sureness, her acerbic wit, those brown eyes. His words had him hypnotized, prone, and almost against his will, he tightened his grip around Peeta, who continued his speech.

"Like I said, you were right. I'm with you because when you find her, I have to protect her. And I don't expect to live through that. But I know Katniss doesn't love me. And she'll do okay if she makes it. If she's the Victor," his voice trailed off, and his whisper got even quieter, if such a thing were possible, "she is the strongest person I have ever, ever met. She could figure it out."

An owl let out a loud hoot in the darkness of the forest. Suddenly the strangeness of laying here, the two of them completely naked, and now not even making attempts toward having sex struck him. This was not going to work, and Cato knew how to back out before he dishonored himself. He jerked away from Peeta's gentle, warm embrace and dressed himself quickly. He had learned enough. Peeta again, simply followed his lead.

When they returned to the camp, everyone but Clove was asleep. He watched the other boy take his place again by the fire and lay down next to his district partner, carefully did not touch her, though that was all he wanted to do, now.

"And?" She said simply. He knew she had understood. Perhaps she had thought about doing the same.

After a long moment, Cato replied, "he's good."

Clove snorted, "I didn't ask about that."

"No, I mean, he's actually _good_."

She quickly hid the look of shock, and replaced it with something cold and hard, "A good person! What the fuck, Cato?" her whispers were as sharp as her favorite knife.

"Kind. Good. Loving. I don't know. He really believes she's going to win. He thinks he's going to die for her and that's... okay with him."

The absurdity of this silenced both of them for a long while.

"He loves her a lot," Cato said in a voice he himself didn't recognize.

"More than I love you," Clove said quietly.

"And more than I love you, little Clover." Perhaps for the first time, a deep feeling of sadness washed over him. He tentatively reached over and wrapped Clove in his arms, she did not protest. Part of him wished that he could feel this way toward her. That he would want to die for her. He reached for a feeling like that, even though it was stupid, forbidden, ridiculous, and came up with just a shred of ruefulness. But he had her here, in his arms, anyway. That must be closer to love, right?

That feeling he had searched for came to him so suddenly, days later, when Clove's voice rang out in his ears. His feet propelled him quickly, unerringly and with no thought of subtlety or restraint, toward her agonized voice. Her name escaped from his mouth without his permission, a loud, strangled cry. And when he saw her on the ground, saw that she was dying, he wished, wished, that he were there instead. That his Little Clover would live.

So finally, Cato truly understood Peeta Mellark. And he vowed to kill him for it. But even this resolve was so unsatisfying. He felt weak. In knowing his enemy, as truly as he had been taught to, he had learned that the strength of being willing to kill was nothing when compared to the power you needed to be willing to die.

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate all comments and critiques. Please check out some of my other stories as well!


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